[Bahorel can be seen in his room, which seems to have become a bit of a small forest of spider plants, most of which are still in their baby stages. A few have been potted, while some others are waiting to be transplanted, and yet more hang from the original planter in the corner of the room. Although not every surface in the room is occupied, it looks as though it may not take particularly long for such to occur if something is not done quickly. Muttering a bit under his breath,]

A whole new meaning to the word "nursery," Christ...

[Fiddling with the camera just a bit until he can finally see himself amidst all the green. A wide and welcoming grin.]

Halloo, mon amis! It seems my darling Selene has flowered yet again, and at a far more alarming rate than I have seen her do so in the past...

[It may or may not have something to do with that Christmas magic spirit in the air, but such has yet to be determined...]

So I have procured plenty of pots and soil of various shapes and sizes, in hopes that there might be a handful of you who might be interested in taking one for yourselves, or to offer to a loved one as a gift for the upcoming holidays.

If such a thing strikes your fancy, do drop by and take your pick of the litter! Floor 16, Room 132.

[Glancing back over his shoulder, before returning to look at the camera with a bit of a wry grin.]

Doesn't seem like you'll have to worry about missing out, to be honest, but you'd certainly be doing me a favour with a quicker claim.

[Those that have met Jack Harkness before on any one of the thirty-seven jumps that he's inhabited the ship may be surprised by his appearance on camera in this moment. He looks haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days - which he hasn't. More days than even he should be able to stretch things. He'd been doing so well, before. They'd all been doing so well. He had let himself relax. He had been starting to make friends, at last. He had let himself be deluded into thinking that he might be able to be happy, here. That this might be permanent, and that he was okay with that.

It's enough to make him want to cry, in retrospect.]

Ianto Jones. Has anyone heard from him, after the... After everything calmed down? He's not answering his comms. It's not like him to just. Disappear.

[Best case scenario is that he's lost. Jack has been looking, as best he can on his own, for every day he can, since it became clear that he was missing, hence the lack of sleep. But one man can only do so much out there. Worst case scenario is... Hell, even best-case scenario isn't good. If he's lost, he's stuck down there, and there's a jump coming up. Jack's trying hard not to think about it, but. The closer it gets, the more it weighs on him.]

Brethren aboard, I come to you today with an enquiry most... well, most abnormal.

I wonder-

[A pause here, squinting, as if not entirely sure how to phrase such a thing. Perhaps it will sound like lunacy, but then, he is very used to being called eccentric anyway. So maybe simply coming out with it was for the best.]

-I wonder if anyone has before been contacted, on their devices, by someone outside of the ship?

Someone not aboard, who does not even know the name Tranquility, and perhaps is not even very familiar with the technology here, as I was once not... Someone curious about us, and this place.

[And unwilling to say why, though he should not wish to alarm anyone by making this sound more cloak-and-dagger than it ought.]

Has anyone else ever communicated with such a person? A voice in the void?

[Gold has a bad habit of not looking at the camera when he's speaking to his device - but this time it seems less like he's working on something more important, and more as though he's examining something, a slightly pensive air to his expression.]

As irritating as it is to admit it, this coming jump will be my twenty-fifth. [He looks up, then, setting whatever item it is aside and giving the camera his full attention.] Patience is a virtue, as they say, but I've lost count of the faces that have come and gone. I won't pretend for any sentiment to the fact - what concerns me is the loss of information that each might have held, whether about this ship or some clue on why they were brought here at all.

[He still believes there's a pattern. There's always a pattern.]

My world was one within several, each with borders that could be... hopped, if you had the means. [And the will.] What was always interesting was the ideas that would seep through the cracks. The lives that would become stories and songs.

[With hugely edited pieces, facts missing, other exaggerated. But he knows his history, and he knows how it's remembered.]

My name is Rumplestiltskin. I'm curious to know how many of you have heard it.